


There Are No Wolves In Whiterun

by LittleMusket



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Gen, Heartbreak, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swearing, in a condescending way of course, in which idolaf refers to ulfric as daddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMusket/pseuds/LittleMusket
Summary: After leaving Ulfric and Windhelm behind, Samiir questions where she went wrong and finds comfort in Whiterun. 24th of Evening Star to 31st of Evening Star, 4E 201.





	1. Kiss with a Fist

**24th of Evening Star, 4E 201**

 

Winter in Skyrim is bitterly cold and Samiir never truly understood how cold it could be until she was traveling across the north with an emptiness in her heart and frozen tears on her cheeks. There really was something special about being so cold inside that the outside felt no different, not that Samiir was emo or anything.

On the slow five day journey from Windhelm to Whiterun, Samiir’s mind constantly fluctuated between violent overthinking and droning silence. With silence came numbness, perhaps on account of the frigid snowfall that plagued her and poor, steady Varbaril the entire trip. With thoughts came anger and spite, towards Ulfric or herself, she didn’t want to know.

She had loved Ulfric so deeply, so wholeheartedly, she had never considered what she’d do if they separated. In the fourteen years she had lived in this chaotic land, Samiir had never predicted a single thing that had happened to her. She asked herself so many questions; why did she let herself get attached? Why did she believe him when he said he loved her, no matter if he meant it or not? Why did she go to him in the first place, that beautiful man that, despite his love for his people, couldn’t stand non-Nords in his city, let alone his province? What did he do the morning he found her gone?

 

Why did she leave?

 

She refused to answer the questions. The answers were cruel and Samiir would rather die than admit she made so many mistakes. Had it been her way, she would have stopped in the middle of the road and laid upon the frozen ground and withered away, but she knew she couldn’t. Varbaril needed to get home to Solitude, to her lovely parents, and her all-but-official son, Blaise. What would her parents do, the kind dockworkers with the huntress daughter and orphan boy, if they heard their daughter was stuck to the ground in Eastmarch, too pathetic to return to them? Faolan and Dondalas Oakrun would never let a heartbreak get the best of them, or anyone else.

It was that thought that kept pushing Samiir on. She knew she should be grateful for it, as she could see Whiterun from the edge of the plain, the torches of the inner city glowing against the darkening sky. Kicking Varbaril into a gallop, perhaps the fastest he had gone in a long time, Samiir let her mind clear and figured out how she would handle the midway break. She guessed she would sleep in the inn for a few days, drink away her sorrows, maybe check out what in Oblivion is up with the Companions.

 

When she reached the stables, the man was surprised to see her.

“Hello again!” He greeted, offering Samiir a smile. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve had a lot to deal with recently,” she said, sniffling. Part of her was glad it was so cold; everyone looked like they had been crying.

“Well, I’m glad to watch old Varbaril for you while you mull things over in the Bannered Mare.”

Samiir smiled. “That was exactly my plan, thank you.” She handed him a bag of 50 septims, though he said his board wasn’t for a price to someone so kind, and she made him take it anyway. She turned and began walking up the road to the city, but turned around again and stumbled back to the man.

“I never caught your name. I’m Samiir,” she said, pulling her cloak closer.

“Skulvar Sable-Hilt.”

“Great,” Samiir grunted before turning, yet again, towards the city.

 

Walking through the gates, Samiir wasn’t surprised that everything was the same. It had only been about a week and a half since she was last here. Her mind began reeling over the fact that in just four months, she had fallen in love with Ulfric, and it all fell apart in about two weeks. Cringing, she continued through the marketplace to the Bannered Mare, her favorite inn in probably all of Skyrim.

 

“Welcome to the Bannered Mare!” Called the lady from the counter. “Let us know if you need any food or drink.”

“Honningbrew mead, please,” Samiir said as she took a seat at the bar and dug for the gold to pay for it, “and a room.”

“Of course,” said the woman, and went about Samiir’s requests. “Thirty septims, please, dear.” She poured the mead into a tankard and handed it to Samiir, who handed her the money in turn.  Without hesitation, Samiir took a swig of the drink and sighed deeply afterward.

“Fallen on hard times?” Asked the woman, leaning on the counter with a sympathetic smile.

“You could call it that,” Samiir said, taking another long drink of the mead. “How much for refills?”

“Well,” the woman pulled the half-empty bottle of Honningbrew mead from under the counter, “you paid for a full bottle and I only gave you half, so you’ve got the rest of this. Each new bottle is twenty septims.”

“I’m guessing the room is ten?”

“Aye, it is.”

“Wonderful,” Samiir mused, downing the last of her drink. It burned in her throat, but the sweet honey made up for it. Samiir didn’t care how much it burned; she would drink until she forgot Ulfric and Windhelm and the Stormcloaks altogether. The woman at the bar poured the rest of the bottle into the tankard and handed it back to Samiir, who started drinking it immediately.

 

The Bannered Mare wasn’t particularly busy tonight, but enough so that there were three or four patrons around the fire at a time, including a bard that wasn’t particularly skilled. Not long after Samiir finished her third bottle of mead, two Nord men waltzed into the establishment, one with wheat-blond hair and the other graying.

“I still cannot believe that old hag!” The graying man exclaimed, and the younger man nodded in exasperation.

“You handled it well, father,” said the younger. “Those Gray-Manes need to be put in their place.”

“Nothing but flea-ridden Stormcloak dogs, they are!” The two men sat down and another barmaid emerged from the kitchen to see if they wanted anything. Samiir clutched her tankard at the mention of Stormcloak, and the woman at the bar, whose name she learned was Hulda, sighed deeply and leaned on the counter again.

“Those two,” Hulda gestured to the Nords, “are Olfrid Battle-Born and his son, Idolaf. Do you know about them?”

“N-no,” Samiir stuttered, setting her tankard down and rubbing her eyes. “What’s up with them?”

“Clans Battle-Born and Gray-Mane used to be the closest of friends before the war began. The Battle-Borns sided with the empire, and the Gray-Manes sided with the Stormcloaks.”

“Oh?” Samiir mused, turning to look at the two men, who were nursing tankards of their own.

“Yeah,” Hulda said, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter. “Today in the market, they cornered poor Fralia Gray-Mane, she’s the jeweler, you know, and started berating her about her missing son, Thorald. The Gray-Manes think the Battle-Borns are keeping him prisoner, but they say he died in the war. If I remember correctly, Olfrid--he’s the older one-- called Fralia a stupid cow and told her to keep her mouth shut, or else she’ll end up the same as Thorold.” Hulda visibly grimaced, mopping up the last of the condensation from Samiir’s tankard.

“What a fuck-off.” Samiir snarled, turning again to glare at the men, who paused when they heard her speak such foul words.

“What did you just call us?” The younger one, Idolaf, asked, setting his tankard down on the floor. Olfrid angrily chewed a piece of bread, looking between Samiir and his son.

“I called you fuck-offs. More specifically, I called _him_ a fuck-off.” She pointed to Olfrid and got off the stool. Hulda inhaled deeply but remained silent, waiting to see if it would escalate further. It always did, but maybe it wouldn’t this time. She hoped, at least.

“Who gave you the right?” Idolaf sneered, stepping around the fire to confront Samiir more directly.

“Ulfric _fucking_ Stormcloak.” Samiir spat, bringing a hand up to shove this idiot away from her.

“A rebel sympathizer!” He announced, making a big show of it. The other patrons in the bar shifted nervously. “What else have you got to say about my father?”

“Well, for starters, what kind of spitfish goes up to a poor old woman just to remind her of her missing son?” Samiir turned to challenge Olfrid, who remained seated. He opened his mouth to speak, but Samiir continued.

“Who the fuck would tell a grieving woman to shut her mouth, ‘ _or else she’ll end up the same way_ ’? What kind of shitfox are you?”

Olfrid was close to overflowing with rage and gave one look to Idolaf, who, Samiir assumed, must do this bullshit often enough to understand what his father wanted, and took the first swing. Samiir jabbed him in the gut and stepped back. She kept talking, flashing the dagger on her belt. She saw Hulda come around the bar, ready to call the guards.

“What’s a little wood elf like you doing supporting those treacherous bastards, anyway?” Idolaf regained his composure and tried to turn the tides. “You really think they want anything to do with you?”

“You don’t have to be a Nord to fight for freedom, you fucklizard,” Samiir growled, stepping close enough to Idolaf to see the different colors in his irises. Idolaf bared his teeth and swung again. Samiir might have had a little too much to drink because she ducked too late and got a fist directly to the temple. Shock took her to the floor, and Idolaf scoffed, as did the other inn patrons.

“Some big talk for a little fighter!” She heard one call.

“Oh, what’s that?” Idolaf asked, looking around in feign curiosity. “I-I think that’s Ulfric Stormcloak.” He reached down and grabbed Samiir by her hair and she cried out, the scarred left side of her face already beginning to bruise. “Daddy’s calling.”

Samiir clenched her jaw and hissed through her teeth, “at least my daddy can still fight.” Idolaf wrinkled his nose and went for a second punch, but Samiir stood faster than he could swing and spit blood in his pretty yellow hair before kneeing him in the Battle-Born family jewels. The crowd of inn patrons _ooh_ ’d and Hulda stepped between the two.

“That’s enough. Samiir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She said firmly, escorting Samiir to the door. Hulda was trying to force back a smile as she stepped outside.

“Sorry about that,” Samiir sighed, walking down the stairs and onto the street. The guard that stood watch between Belethor’s and Arcadia’s turned to look, but just as soon turned back to the square.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Hulda reassured. “It’s just company policy to kick out any brawlers, but I’m glad you put Idolaf down.” Samiir looked around. The only real inn in Whiterun was the Mare. The Drunken Huntsman was more of just a bar and weapons shop, and everything else in town was in the marketplace. Maybe Skulvar would let her sleep in the stables.

“If you’re looking for a room, I’m sure the Companions will take you in for the night, or however long you’re staying.” Hulda flashed Samiir a smile before going back into the tavern.

The Companions, huh? Samiir sighed heavily and slumped as she made her way up to the second tier of Whiterun and the overturned ship that housed those legendary warriors.

 

“What do you think this is, a tavern? Get lost!” The ginger Companion snapped, shoving a forkful of venison into her mouth.

“Please,” Samiir begged, “I’m stopping here on my trip home to Solitude and I got kicked out of the Bannered Mare.”

“If you got kicked out of the Bannered Mare, we don’t want you here. Troublemakers don’t belong in Jorrvaskr,” said the ginger.

“Hold on a second, Aela,” said an older man with shock white hair. There was a certain kindness in his face that comforted Samiir as he turned to look at her. “Why were you kicked out?”

“I had too much to drink and got into a fight with some guy named Idolaf Battle-Born,” Samiir muttered, wrinkling her nose.

“Battle-Born?” Mused a few Companions.

“Yeah,” Samiir continued, “the lady at the bar told me that he and his father cornered, uh...Fralia Gray-Mane in the market today.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” a dark elf murmured. A brown haired Nord woman turned to him and asked what happened, and the elf quietly relayed the story to her.

“Why did you fight Idolaf?” The old man asked, putting Samiir on the spot. Aela and two other men who looked remarkably alike and familiar sat in silence and waited for the answer.

“I meant to fight his father but he was the only one that would talk back to me, so I fought him. It wasn’t even really a fight, anyway--physically, I mean. He punched me and I kicked him in the nuts.”

“Ha!” Aela exclaimed, turning to hit one of the familiar men on the shoulder.

The old man considered Samiir’s answer for a while, leaving her to stand in silence. She took the opportunity to look over the two men more before it hit her that they were the two she saw leaving Jorrvaskr when she delivered the axe to Balgruuf. Huh.

“I think she deserves a warm bed to sleep in,” the old man concluded, turning to see what the others had to say.

“She can fight, Kodlak,” Aela began, “but she still caused trouble.”

“We rarely lend beds to travelers, Harbinger,” said the short-haired man on one side of Aela, “why her?”

“That’s because travelers stop at the Bannered Mare, Vilkas,” Kodlak chided. “If this girl’s tale is true, she’ll need as much rest and warm food as she can get before she goes home to Solitude. Jorrvaskr is always welcome to those who need it.”

“Not to mention that the New Life Festival is tomorrow,” said the long-haired man on the other side of Aela. “It’s not right to leave her out there on her own when she deserves to be celebrating the new year, just as we do.”

“Farkas makes a good point,” Kodlak pointed out. He turned to Samiir and smiled. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need; just don’t go starting any fights here.” He gave a hearty laugh and some of the other Companions chuckled.

“Now, then, would you like to join us for dinner or go straight to bed?” The Harbinger shifted back into his seat, gesturing to the feast set out on the table. The mead had filled Samiir up, and any appetite she had before was lost when Idolaf knocked her square in the head.

“I’d just like to sleep, please.” She sighed, shrugging against the weight of her bags.

“Of course, my friend,” Kodlak looked to Farkas, “would you mind showing her where the beds are?”

“Sure thing,” Farkas said, rising from his seat. Vilkas looked wearily between him and Samiir, and Aela was perfectly content with her food, as were the rest of the Companions. “Come on.”

 

“Sorry Aela snapped at you like that,” Farkas said as he showed Samiir around the rooms in the basement of Jorrvaskr. “She’s been a bit touchy lately; hasn’t been able to hunt as much as she wants.”

“No, it’s alright,” Samiir reassured.

“My brother, Vilkas, he’s been a bit gloomy, too, but he’s always like that.”

“Hmm,” Samiir murmured, looking around the dimly lit hall.

“You’re lucky Skjor’s out doing work, or else he might have scared you off the moment you walked in.”

“Ugh!” Samiir exclaimed in playful shock. “I’m not that skittish.” Farkas laughed a gruff but genuine laugh and stopped in the middle of the last hall, which was split into two rooms with a handful of beds each.

“Well, this is where the whelps sleep.”

“The whelps?”

“New recruits,” Farkas explained, his unnatural silver eyes catching the dim light. Samiir hadn’t really noticed them until now, but this man had such a gentle aura that she didn’t care.

“Thank you for showing me,” Samiir said, dropping her bags at the foot of the nearest bed.

“Any time,” Farkas said, running a hand through his dark hair. “Thank you for beating Idolaf up.”

“Any time,” Samiir chuckled, beaming at Farkas.

“Well, uh…” Farkas stumbled with his words before gesturing behind him. “I guess I’ll go back upstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Right…”

Samiir laughed softly and waved goodbye as Farkas grinned sheepishly and returned to the feast hall, leaving her alone in the barracks. Sighing, Samiir laid her cloak over her like a blanket and fell into a restless sleep, head spinning on account of the mead and her face and scalp aching.

 

When she awoke later, the other women were sleeping soundly in Samiir’s area, while the men were on the other end. Samiir shifted her weight and sunk further into the furs and straw on the bed. The torches had been put out, the only light coming from further down the hall, and Samiir stared at the dark ceiling. The last time she had stared at the ceiling was one of the many nights Ulfric snored in her ear and forbid her from sleeping. Gods be damned.

Thoughts began to plague her mind again and her stomach swirled. She should have just slept through the night or joined Ulfric when she saw him sleeping, or woke Sigga to talk about it. Ulfric just wanted her to be happy. She should have caught him alone and told him everything he should do if he wanted to be High King. Samiir let her fear and anger get the best of her and it cost her a man she loved more than anything in the world. She searched and scoured her memories for other signs, ones she hadn’t written in the letter, but there were none. Were those few words to Galmar really enough to make Samiir leave him?

She had told him so much. How she lost her eye, how she came to Skyrim, her hunts, her adventures; she even taught him the romantic pet names people in Valenwood had for each other, and he had loved them so much. He loved _her_ so much, and how did she repay him?

Shifting again, Samiir let one leg drop off the bed as motivation to get up and walk around, though when she moved to sit up, a ghostly howl sounded throughout the hall, despite their being underground. The wolf must have been just outside the city walls, though it didn’t seem logical they would get that close.

There are no wolves in Whiterun.


	2. New Life Festival

**25th of Evening Star, 4E 201**

Samiir had a difficult time sleeping that night, for obvious reasons. When the other women finally stirred, she guessed she pulled in about four or five hours of sleep. In Windhelm, with steady domestic essentials always available to her, she slept at least ten. Though recently, with this back and forth to Whiterun, she was lucky if she got even three. She supposed it was alright, as she was ready and awake enough to go about her day, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t bitter about it.

As the warrior women stretched and began their morning conversations, Samiir occupied herself with the water pitcher. Dumping some in a bowl, she splashed face and began scrubbing, surprised yet expectant when blood tinted the water.

“By the Nine,” said one of the women; the Nord with brown hair. “Idolaf got you pretty good, huh?”

“Ha!” Samiir scoffed, wiping her face with the rag provided. “That bastard’s lucky if he ever has kids again.”

The women chuckled, and one of the men from the other room snorted. Samiir turned to look and saw it was the Dunmer man from, just like everyone else, the night before. She stifled a smile and dug through her bags for simple clothes, pulling out a knee-long blue dress with a corset to match. It had been a while since she wore a plain dress and she adored this one. One of the women, an Imperial, got a hint and held up a fur in front of her as she dressed.

“Thank you,” Samiir said after securing her dress. The woman smiled and set down the fur.

“No problem. My name is Ria, by the way.”

“I’m Samiir.”

“I like it. Let me help you with that corset.” Ria grabbed the strings of the corset and helped Samiir tighten them, constantly asking if it was too tight.

“I hate wearing corsets,” Samiir grunted as Ria tied the ends in a cute little bow.

“I do, too,” Ria admitted, brushing her hair behind her ear. She walked across the room to put her own armor on.

“Corsets are hot,” called one of the men.

“Watch yourself,” the brown-haired woman warned.

“I mean, like, literally. I tried to wear one once and I was sweating through it.” The man laughed, nudging the Dunmer, who seemed pretty uninterested. Ria rolled her eyes.

“That’s Torvar and Athis. They’re always right on the line between hilarious and assholes,” Ria said, finishing with her own armor.

“I’m Njada,” the second woman grunted, “don’t expect me to be all buddy with you.”

“Ignore her,” Ria said, guiding Samiir out of the room and through the hall. “Are you excited for the festival today?”

“What?”

“The New Life Festival. Every year on the 25th of Evening Star, we get together and celebrate life and the new year and get super drunk.”

“It’s already the 25th? Sounds like a regular Middas to me,” Samiir laughed.

 

In the feast hall, Aela, Farkas, and Vilkas were already eating breakfast with a new Companion. He was pretty scary looking; nearly bald, scarred face, had arguably the biggest arms Samiir had ever seen. This must be Skjor.

He shifted his eyes to study Samiir, the piercing silver holding her in place. Ria looked to see why Samiir had stopped, but upon spotting Skjor, continued to the table and sat down, looking anxiously between the two.

“New blood?” Skjor asked, breaking eye contact only to look at Aela.

“Traveler,” Aela said, her voice muffled by food. Skjor grunted and resumed his meal. Inhaling as quietly as she could, Samiir took a seat between Ria and Farkas.

 

Breakfast passed in silence. Samiir didn’t eat much, her appetite, yet again, ruined by some Nord she wouldn’t have met if she arrived any other day but yesterday. Torvar and Athis came up not long after Ria and Samiir, arguing about some dagger or another. Samiir finished before everyone and excused herself to go outside and sit beneath the Gildergreen. Its branches were barren, the weakest twigs blowing in the frigid wind. There were some other civilians around the Gildergreen, talking about plans for the night and the coming year. One man held an open bottle of wine and from it came a smell Samiir would recognize anywhere; that of spiced wine from Solitude. Her heart ached for home so intensely that for a moment, she felt like she was suffocating.

It felt strange to her that after so many months in Windhelm, she was finally returning home. She had written to her parents a few times, but not as often as she should’ve. It didn’t matter, anyhow; the letters would take weeks to arrive if they ever did. She would leave Whiterun in a few days time and when she could finally collapse in a familiar bed, it would be in her true home, with her parents and Blaise. Not with Ulfric. Never again would it be with Ulfric.

Part of her was so angry, though she felt guilty. Ulfric had told so many lies; not only to her but to his country, the very thing he pledged his life to. The Markarth Incident, the death of Torygg, the Grey Quarter in Windhelm; all things he was wrong for. Samiir thought about each instance and couldn’t remember a time Ulfric ever confided in her about them. He never liked to look back at things. His mind was strictly one-way and he would follow it until he died but, gods, he was so tired. 

Samiir remembered a night she had gone for food after Sigga had gone to bed and she found Ulfric hunched over his war table. He had looked so old then. As Samiir stood and watched as he scanned the flags on the table, checking and double-checking each city, she saw the grey hairs peeking out of one of his braids.

 

_ “Ulfric, my love,” she had said, reaching for his hand. “Come to bed. You’re exhausted.” _

_ “I’ve been exhausted for years, now,” he murmured, turning to meet her gaze. “I’m not the man I was.” _

_ “You still have the fire I saw in Solitude, that day we first met.” _

_ “Do you know how old I am, Samiir?” He asked, his shoulders shaking as he straightened. Samiir shrugged; his age had never really come up. “I’m fifty-two.” _

_ “At least you’re not 136,” she chuckled, raising a hand to his cheek. _

_ “Our kinds age differently,” he reminded her. “If I were a wood elf, I’d be well on my way to 250.” _

_ Samiir cringed, her light smile faltering. Bosmer life expectancy was just that, maybe 300 if you were exceptionally healthy. “Nords still live longer than fifty-two, my sun and stars.” _

_ “My love,” he sighed, “I’m so tired.” _

_ “So come to bed,” Samiir choked up, holding his hand tighter. _

_ “I have so much work to do.” _

 

It wasn’t until a little girl tapped Samiir on the shoulder that she realized she had been crying.

“Are you okay, miss?” The little girl asked, sitting on the bench next to Samiir.

“I made a hard decision, my girl,” Samiir said shakily.

“Oh,” the girl murmured, looking down at her feet, which hung a few inches off the ground. “Well, my name is Lucia. You can tell me about it, if you want.”

“Thank you, Lucia. My name is Samiir,” she offered her best smile to the girl, who beamed back. “Where are your parents?”

Lucia hesitated, sorrow plain on her face. Oh shit.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s alright. My...my mama died and my aunt and uncle kicked me out after they took over our farm.” Lucia grew gloomier and Samiir cursed herself.

“Why?” Samiir asked, tensing. What kind of asshole kicks out their orphaned niece?

“They said I wasn’t good for anything. I ended up here. Brenuin said I should ask people for money. He’s the only person that’s kind to me.”

“Brenuin is the only one?”

“Well, Breniun and Mister Farkas. Do you know Mister Farkas?” Lucia asked, her eyes lighting up again. “He’s a Companion.” She pointed to Jorrvaskr.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Samiir smiled. “He’s very nice to me, too.”

Just then, Samiir heard the doors to Jorrvaskr creak open. Looking up, she saw that it was, coincidentally, Farkas. Spotting she and Lucia beneath the Gildergreen, he smiled and made his way down the stairs to them.

“Mister Farkas!” Lucia called, jumping up to meet him at the bottom. She wrapped her tiny arms around Farkas and his grin widened. He ruffled her hair and laughed softly.

“Good morning, Lady Lucia,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder after she stopped hugging him. Lucia tidied her hair and grabbed his hand, pulling him over to Samiir.

“Samiir said she knows you!” Lucia, bless her soul, was practically jumping with excitement at the two being acquainted.

“She does,” Farkas said, bowing his head to Samiir. “Good morning, Lady Samiir.”

“Good morning, Sir Farkas,” Samiir replied, rising to curtsey. Lucia looked giddily between the two, obviously enraptured with their false display of courtship.

“Would you like me to show you around?” Farkas asked, offering his arm to Samiir. Wow, he was really going all in, huh? Probably for Lucia, Samiir guessed, who adorned the biggest smile she had ever seen.

“Of course,” Samiir said, fiddling with the hem of her dress as she accepted his hand. Farkas offering Lucia his other arm, and the three of them set off around town.

 

Farkas showed Samiir every aspect of the bustling yet homey town; shops, homesteads, the local temple, and what lie around Dragonsreach, though he had no interest in actually entering. Too boring, he said; all those scholars and politics. Samiir couldn’t help but laugh.

Lucia never ventured very far, ever eager to show Samiir her favorite places to play. There were other children in Whiterun, though when Lucia smiled and waved at them, they grimaced and turned away. Rude.

“The celebrations will be starting soon,” Farkas mentioned, pointing to the darkening sky.

“Yay!” Lucia called, catching up to the pair after stopping to look at some flowers in a garden.

“What’s the New Life Festival like in Whiterun?” Samiir asked as they crossed the small bridge into the park, where they started the day.

“Lots of mead,” Farkas laughed, grinning at Samiir. Though she was at ease, anxiety began knotting in Samiir’s stomach and she pulled Farkas aside, watching as Lucia stopped again to admire flowers.

“Shouldn’t we send her inside somewhere?”

Farkas met Samiir’s worry with his own, dark brows knitted as he tried to figure something out.

“Is Kodlak a good babysitter?” Samiir asked though that was probably the most outrageous suggestion she’d ever had. There was no way a seasoned warrior such as Kodlak would waste his time watching an orphan instead of drinking with his fellow Companions.

“You know, actually,” Farkas looked between Lucia and Jorrvaskr, “Kodlak loves to tell the children his stories.”

“Then it’s settled,” Samiir smiled, pausing to call Lucia over. The young girl skipped over to the two, beaming up at them with an orange flower in her hair.

“I think it’s best that you stay in Jorrvaskr tonight,” Farkas said firmly, his hands on his hips.

“But,” Lucia began, crossing her arms, “I want to stay with you and Samiir!”

“Lucia,” Samiir chided gently, “lots of people with be drinking tonight. We want you to be safe. I’m sure Kodlak will be more than happy to tell you some stories.”

“We’ll be back before midnight,” Farkas promised, holding his hand out to Lucia. The girl reluctantly took it and he led her up to Jorrvaskr, Samiir close behind.

 

Once dusk fell, the people of Whiterun began milling about the city, mead around every corner. Samiir, once confident in her navigation skills, felt horribly lost and stuck close to Farkas. He lead her down the stairs to the marketplace and grabbed two bottles of Honningbrew mead from a crate, holding one out to Samiir.

“Thank you,” Samiir took the mead and pulled the cork out, hesitantly taking a sip. Farkas followed suit but took a much bigger drink. The two stood for a moment, Samiir holding her arms close and Farkas leaning against a market stall, and they took in the revelry.

“Ah!” Farkas grunted, standing up straight. His eyes flashed in the torchlight and he looked at Samiir briefly before stepping into the crowd. “My brother’s over there, I’m gonna say hi.”

“Oh, alright,” Samiir piped up, though she processed the situation too slowly and Farkas was already gone. She sighed and pulled her arms closer, making herself as small as possible. She was usually so quick and charismatic, but for some reason, she felt so alone in the world that she might actually cave in on herself.

Rather than take further pity on herself, Samiir decided to leave the little corner and mingle. It was a festival, wasn’t it? New Life, at that. She could forget everything that had happened to her and start anew. A smile here, a laugh at a drunken story there, and soon Samiir felt like she was truly part of the celebrations.

 

An hour must have passed before Samiir remembered Farkas was there. In that time, she had managed to control herself and still nursed the same bottle he had given her. Breaking away from a conversation with a stall owner and a wannabe caravanner, Samiir set out to look for the man.

The marketplace seemed, oddly, a lot bigger when there are fifty people in it. Samiir struggled through the crowd, keeping an eye out for Farkas, or Vilkas or any other Companion that might know where he is. Though she meant to find just dark hair, her eye dragged her towards another. Wheat-blond, pulled tidily back, and before she could realize it was Idolaf, his blue eyes met hers and froze her to the ground. Her breath caught in her throat and her jaw slacked, and Idolaf smirked before looking back at his friends.

Samiir’s heart jumped into her throat as Idolaf nodded in her direction and began leading his friends over, but before they could get too close, Farkas clapped his hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry I left you there,” he said, reaching for her hand. She took it and let him lead her out of the marketplace, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, feeling Idolaf’s frigid gaze on her the entire time.

 

Farkas led her around town, showcasing all the candles and lightning bugs that lit up the road. They made it to the Gildergreen, where the other Companions had gathered and were watching the stars. Farkas set his mead down on a barrel and showed Samiir his favorite stars, while she connected them into constellations.

 

“You know,” Samiir began, looking around at the Companions, “last night, I heard some wolves calling. Did any of you hear it?”

There was an uneasy laugh among the group, and Athis snorted, staring at Samiir down the bridge of his nose.

“That’s ridiculous. There are no wolves in Whiterun.” 


End file.
